


Workin' on empty

by jazzyjesse



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exploration of the Self, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzyjesse/pseuds/jazzyjesse
Summary: A tiefling claws his way out of the ground in search of his past. He finds a new family instead.He finds a dirtied note folded in his equally dirtied shirt. He puts the sun-bleached coat from the stick on for warmth. He brings the cloth—tapestry, his mind supplies—for the same reason. He holds a sword in his hand and wears confusion like a crown. He heads south.(title is from Hozier's Work Song)
Relationships: The Clay Family & Mollymauk Tealeaf, The Mighty Nein & Mollymauk Tealeaf
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Workin' on empty

Dirt. There’s dirt in his eyes in his mouth in his lungs in his brain. He has to writhe and swipe at whatever is keeping his arms at his sides so he can get out… not that he knows what out is. All he knows is dirt, he claws and claws at it hoping the direction he picked is the surface. He claws and digs for what could be seconds or years or centuries; again, not like he knows what time is. He doesn’t know much, just that he has to get out.

Finally, his hand breaks through the dirt and into the air. From then on it’s a mad scramble to get his head out of the oppressive dirt. His head is going fuzzy and his arms feel miles away from him, but he’s so close. He kicks and pulls until finally, _finally,_ his head breaks free. He fills his lungs to the bursting brim before sputtering and coughing up mud. 

The rest of his body is still trapped, only his arms and face are above the surface. He looks around for anything to grab anything to get him _out._ He blinks the dirt and mud from his eyes just enough to see a stick in front of a tree about a foot from where he is; if he can just get to it he can pull himself out of this hell. His fingers just barely grab purchase on the stick but when he tries to pull it just leans toward him. He lets out a broken and scared whimper. Words have yet to come to him. 

Over time he manages to get half his torso out of the dirt, it’s at least enough to breathe. Unfortunately, with each breath, a hot spike of pain digs into his chest. By the time he gets himself fully out of the dirt the sun is down and the moons are high in the sky. He doesn’t know how long he’s been digging for but the hard part is over. Distantly he thinks he must make a sight to behold: wrapped in a cloth of some sort, spit made mud on his face, and a layer of dirt across his entire body. 

With a hand clutching his burning ribs and most of the dirt cleared from his eyes and lungs he lays down next to his grave and shuts his eyes. He’s unsure if he’ll open them again but anything is better than _that._

When he next wakes the sun is setting. He finds a dirtied note folded in his equally dirtied shirt. He puts the sun-bleached coat from the stick on for warmth. He brings the cloth—tapestry, his mind supplies—for the same reason. He holds a sword in his hand and wears confusion like a crown. He heads south. 

He clutches his rib and wraps the coat and tapestry tight around his shoulders. He walks and walks and walks. He couldn’t read the name on the note so he has none. He simply walks until he stumbles and falls, gets up in a few hours, continues walking, falls, gets up, walks, falls, gets up. 

Eventually (after many fall cycles) he sees buildings. He wills his body to move faster but it won’t. He almost makes it to the entrance of the village before stumbling and falling again. He wakes to movement—someone shaking his shoulders. He opens his eyes to see a halfling peering down at him with concern. They mutter something he can’t understand before putting a hand to his head and saying in Common,

“Are you alright?” They sound kind; he can’t speak. Words have not yet made themselves known to him. He shakes his head. “What’s your name, friend?” He swallows but his throat catches. 

“G- g- g-” His hands fly to his neck, it feels like he’s choking, “G- goh- gone.” The halfling pulls his hands from his neck, he feels a warmth spread down to his collarbones. “Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.” He can’t say anything else. Why can’t he say anything else? What’s wrong? What happened? Why can’t he speak? Why is everything _gone_? Why is that all he can say?

The halfling calms him down, helps him up, settles him in the back of their wagon, and they ride off. He doesn’t know where to. He doesn’t know where from. All his memories are gone. All his personality is gone. The world has been stained with a muddy color called gone. He can’t get rid of it. 

Next thing he knows he’s trapped again. There’s a heavy weight crushing his chest, he can’t move his arms or legs, he can’t breathe. Then he’s free. Then a light comes. Something cool presses against his forehead. The terror leaves his body bit by bit. Air comes back to his lungs. He sleeps. 

He hears voices, soft and unintelligible. He sleeps. 

He’s fed something warm and filling. He sleeps.

He’s given water. He can’t ask for more. He sleeps. 

He sleeps. 

Then everything is clear. Everything is sharp, if only for a moment. _Mollymauk Tealeaf_. His name. He remembers but he cannot speak.

Mollymauk stays with the halfling— Trym Ereclera— for a few weeks. He still doesn’t know who he is but he has a name now. Trym shows him sign so he can speak while his voice is missing. The words are clumsy in his hands but familiar; it feels like holding the scimitars, clumsy but familiar. Life quickly falls into a rhythm: wake up, help in the garden, play with the children, eat, help around the house, sleep, repeat. 

The pattern isn’t interrupted until the fourth week. Mollymauk is helping in the garden one day as he does every day when one of the children— Serafina, the youngest— gives him a flower they picked. It’s a pale blue that’s familiar, so familiar. He runs his thumbs along the flower feeling its velvety petals. Mollymauk sits there, kneeling in the dirt clutching a flower, for what feels like decades before a word comes to him. 

“Mister Mollymauk? Are you alright?” Trym snuck up on him when he wasn’t looking, they look concerned. Mollymauk doesn’t know why. 

“Yasha,” He says looking down at the blue flower against his purple skin. 

“Yasha?” 

Mollymauk nods, he doesn’t know who Yasha is but he’s sure they’re a person. Yasha has mismatched eyes, one blue one purple. Yasha is strong. Yasha is his friend. Yasha is his family. 

“Yasha… gone.” Mollymauk doesn’t often push his voice but now seems important. Yasha is gone. Whoever Yasha is, they’re gone. 

“Mollymauk? Are you alright?” Trym gently puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Yasha gone.” Mollymauk takes a steadying breath before signing, “ _What if Yasha is dead? Yasha is family._ ” He’s surprised at how easily the name comes to his hands, the letter Y followed by flower. Yasha, Yasha, Yasha, Yasha, who are they? Where are they? Why aren't they _here_ with Mollymauk where they should be? What happened? Did they bury him? Dread sinks down to his stomach at the thought, this Yasha is clearly someone he cares about but what if they killed him?

Next thing Mollymauk knows he’s inside at the too-small table with a cup of cold tea in his hands and a child’s head on his shoulder. He looks down at the child to see its Serafina sleeping peacefully; he smiles to himself.

It is several weeks before Mollymauk can start to string short verbal sentences together and even then he relies almost exclusively on sign. He doesn’t understand _why_ he needs to speak when he has his hands. Although, he supposes it could be useful in the garden. It’s been weeks since Yasha came to him but he hasn’t gotten any other clues to his past.

Mollymauk accompanies Trym and their spouse to the market some days, the local children delight in his colorful appearance while the local elders look down their nose at him. Today he accompanies Trym and their children to the market with a promise that he’ll keep an eye on the kids. They seem to like him. 

“What do you think about this one?” Trym asks, holding up a plain canvas bag. They’d been looking for something for Mollymauk to carry his few things in if he ever needs to leave. Although Trym and their family haven’t made him feel like he should leave or that he's a burden he has a niggling feeling in the back of his head telling him he’s missing something. 

Mollymauk shakes his head and signs, “ _It wouldn’t match my tattoos and coat._ ” The coat in question is laying at home, sun-bleached and fraying. He knows he’ll have to replace it sooner or later but it, the tapestry, and the smudged note are all the clues to his past at his disposal. 

“Mollymauk! C’mere!” Serafina is tugging on his hand, desperate to show him something. He looks to Trym who nods with a smile. Mollymauk lets Serafina drag him through the market to a corner stall selling little knick-knacks. The stall has all sorts of little treasures from ceramic trees to glass windchimes, none of those seem to be the object of Serafina’s attention, though. She gently picks up a purple statue, he’s unsure what it’s made of. It appears to be some sort of stone, maybe a gemstone if the seller is ambitious. 

“It’s the same color as your skin!” She says, holding it out to him excitedly. He takes it gingerly and examines it closer. The statue is indeed the same lavender as his skin. It’s a carved figure of a woman with wings sprouting from her back cupping a flower in her hands. There's a pulling sensation in his chest as he regards the strange little statue, unsure of what it means. He thinks of Yasha, the mystery person from his past. This Yasha meant a great deal to him. He buys the little statue and holds the little parcel close to his chest. 

As the small troupe starts heading back to the house Mollymauk overhears snippets of a conversation. 

“-sucks but at least the Iron Shepherds really are gone.” 

“I heard the forest witch that haunts the Savilirwood even helped gutting them out. Not that it’ll make Shadycreek any more habitable.” 

Mollymauk stops in his tracks, but at the look of concern Serafina gives him he simply brushes the strange feeling of unease aside and heads home to help with the supper. 

“ _What is Shadycreek?”_ He asks Trym that night while helping with the dishes. 

“Shadycreek Run is a lawless town just north of the Empire. It’s not a vacation hotspot by any means,” they turn to look at him, “Why? Did you hear something about it?” 

Mollymauk nods, “ _The Iron Shepherds? Do you know what that is?”_ Trym sighs. 

“As far as I know they’re a group of slavers who work out of Shadycreek. It’s really not the type of place you’d want to be, Mollymauk.” 

He leaves the conversation at that but that night as he lays in his bed under his tapestry, with his scimitars on the bedside table, he picks up that little statue and tries to connect the dots that seem lightyears away from each other. Something about Shadycreek Run feels wrong like he should know more. The stone in his hands reminding him of Yasha doesn’t mix well with the sour taste of the new knowledge of Shadycreek.

He doesn’t often try to push his memories, he figures if it's important it’ll come back, but this seems important enough to push. Yasha… What does he know about them? He knows they have mismatched eyes, they’re strong, quiet, haunted, and that they’re family. 

Mollymauk lays in his bed for several hours pondering what this feeling could mean. Hearing the name of Shadycreek Run felt like he was doused with ice water but it left him no closer to figuring out what it has to do with his past. Eventually, as Catha’s light bathes the room in an ethereal silver glow, Mollymauk places the lavender statue next to his scimitars and drifts off into an uneasy sleep. 

His dreams consist of a young girl who seems to blend into the night sky. She shows him the direction to Shadycreek Run and the visage of his Yasha. She shows him the woods surrounding the ramshackle town. Something is there for him. The Savilirwood holds the answers he seeks. 

As Mollymauk dresses for the windy spring day, he notices that the blue thread—detailing a crescent moon strung like a bow with arrows on either side of it—has lost none of its color from the sun bleaching the rest of the coat has been subjected to. 

Mollymauk tells Trym of his dream that day. He says he needs to find Yasha, that he needs to solve this mystery. They pack Mollymauk rations, coin, and what else they can give him for his journey. Serafina, by far the most attached to Mollymauk, hugged him tight.

“Take care of the little angel! She’s like your little sister because you look the same,” she says with all the sincerity and conviction of a small child. Mollymauk ruffles her hair and smiles. 

“ _I’ll be sure to take care of her. Thank you all for the hospitality you’ve shown me._ ”

Mollymauk pats the children on the head, thanks Trym and their spouse once again, and is off on the road north.

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this in the works for a literal year now and then i saw viktor maru's clay!molly au art and with the current way the game is going the stars have aligned


End file.
